MARK MURPHY

OFFICIAL AUTHOR WEBSITE

As promised, here’s the short story that I read at the Savannah Book Festival (first published in the 2004 collection “O Georgia”). Enjoy!

The Funeral

The storm came out of nowhere.

A mere whisper and a few tears shed by the sullen sky over the Yucatan, the winds waxed to a full roar by Brownsville, and were screaming by the time they neared Port Arthur. Rain came in sheets, phalanx after phalanx marching ashore along the Spanish moss-clad coastlines of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. The storm ghosted past Lake Pontchartrain, washing the sins of the night from the streets of Old New Orleans, rattling the musty skeletons of the above-ground graveyards of Metairie. Drifting back into the sea, it strengthened anew. The rejuvenated winds howled along the streets of Mobile and ground up the coastline along I-10. Flailing arms of surf and rain slammed hard against the bluffs of Pensacola. The confrontation wounded the storm, sapping its strength. Slowing there, the beast crawled inland, gusting and shaking its wet fists at the stalwart pines and the oaks as it died away, reluctantly, along the Florida gulf shore. Dawn came, the sun veiled as if it had averted its gaze from the old navy town.
It was Wednesday morning.
She entered the sanctuary quietly, taking brief respite from the wind and the rain and the cold, her glittery green Mardi Gras dress reflecting the flickering votives in homage to the sleeping sun.
There were people inside the church, lots of them. Some dabbed at tears in their eyes.

The church bells gonged, off-key, as if they had cracked. The organ droned on with some obscure Requiem–Mozart, perhaps. The stained glass windows even appeared to be in mourning, their palette of bright colors and messages of hope muted by the gray remnants of the fading storm.
She took a seat in the last pew. She only wished to dry off, to let her dark hair be rid of the sop that matted it to her head like a helmet. She crossed herself reflexively as she sat; after all, this was a consecrated spot, even if it was not Sunday.I hope nobody notices me, she thought.
Two white-and-gold clad priests walked down the aisle. One was older, white-haired and slow-footed, as though walking on eggshells. The other was younger, auburn-haired, with a more erect gait. A fresh-faced altar boy carried a smoking censer. Behind him, two somber men in suits pushed a casket down the aisle. The casket was borne upon a wheeled metal framework. The front left wheel wobbled a bit.

A casket!

She had stumbled out of the storm and into a funeral.

Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her. She studied the faces of the mourners. Their faces were frozen masks of grief. A few looked vaguely familiar.
“Friends and family, we are gathered here today for a sad occasion–to mourn the passing of our wife, our sister, our mother and friend, Lisa.”
The younger priest had taken the pulpit. He had a gentle face; his eyes were kind and his voice was soothing. The priest remarked how Lisa had been selfless and giving, working tirelessly to raise her family and to help others despite her own illness.Lupus.
They said it by name–a name that sounded like some ancient curse.Lisa seems like a woman that would have been nice to know, she thought, her fingers absently twirling a golden tassel on her dress.
She felt guilty. She was a funeral gate-crasher, a dripping-wet, inappropriately-dressed interloper into these peoples’ private lives.
Outside, the storm began to abate. The steady static thrumming of the rain on the slate roof had dissipated. Light trickled in through the stained glass. Dry enough, she looked for the doors. It was time to leave.
Too late! The service was over. The casket, now draped with a white linen sheet, was wheeled past her, followed by the priests and the altar boys. A curling, gossamer tendril of incense lazily drifted behind them, its vaguely sweet smell following along behind them like a memory. The woman’s family followed. Embarrassed, she bowed her head, not daring to make eye contact.
She looked up only once. Her eyes caught those of the deceased woman’s son, a short-statured young man with Down’s syndrome. His eyes were red-rimmed, but gentle. He wiped them with his sleeve as he walked slowly down the aisle, holding his sister’s hand.
The young man stared at her, blinking. Slowly, like dawn breaking, a huge smile creased his face.
As the family passed by on the way out of the sanctuary, the young man turned to her and waved, even glancing over his shoulder as he trundled down the aisle and out the door.
She flushed crimson at this attention, but smiled back at him. It seemed the natural thing to do.
Besides, he looked familiar. She was certain she’d seen him before.
The crowd broke up. Arising from her pew, less self-conscious now, she glanced around the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart. She admired the polished wooden beams, the carved renderings of the trials of Christ, and the comforting simplicity of the church’s marble baptismal.
It would be hard to leave this place. She felt at peace here.
Outside, a few scattered raindrops were all that was left of the storm. Brilliant swords of light pierced the tattered remnants of an angry sky.
It was all but over.
She drifted over to the curb, beneath the moss-draped branches of an ancient live oak, and paused a moment to watch the family as they walked across the street together, arm-in-arm. Jay appeared to be holding up well; Jackie–how much she’s grown! And Greg, again looking over his shoulder, tugging on his father’s sleeve.
Smiling back at her.
Something ached in her chest, something deep and vital.
She wanted to hug Greg, to smooth his unruly hair with her fingers. She wanted to tell Jay and Jackie that everything would be okay.
An older man, rail-thin, his head topped with a shock of white hair, approached her. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit. His dark eyes were limitless, yet filled with love and compassion.
She knew him, too. Of course she knew him.
“Lisa, it’s time to go,” the man said, taking her small hand in his own calloused palm.
His voice was gentle.
She gazed across the street as the young family began to enter the church fellowship hall, the large white doors swinging wide.
She smiled. A tear came to her eye. She did not wipe it away.
“A minute, daddy. I want to watch just one more minute.”
The two of them stood there, arm-in-arm, as the sun finally pierced the clouds and drove away the last of the shadows. They were framed by the twisted branches of the live oaks, raised to the heavens in frozen supplication. Spanish moss, tinted green by the fresh rainfall, bearded the trees.
She remembered a thousand things.
She cherished them all.
“I love you,” she whispered.